The Kayfabe of Media: Wrestling with America’s Cultural Myths

What we choose to celebrate in media reveals more than our tastes—it unveils the myths we build to define ourselves. In the ivory towers of cultural criticism, we like to polish our stories, scrubbing away the parts that feel too messy, too real, too human. What’s left are gleaming narratives of greatness—neat, clean, and comforting.

This is nothing new. Corporate America has long crafted its own myths. We extol titans like Ford and Rockefeller, while conveniently glossing over industries built on vice—alcohol, tobacco, and sex. These “dirty” industries don’t fit the polished image we like to see staring back at us. Instead, we rewrite history so our heroes shine brighter, more noble, more “us.” But this desire for perfection doesn’t stop at our past—it permeates our present, reshaping the way we view media itself.

Even in the content we consume, there’s a hierarchy of worthiness. Highbrow media—arthouse films, prestige television—gets lauded, celebrated, and elevated. But what about the so-called schlock? The reality shows, the Jerry Springers, the WWEs? These are loved by millions, and yet they rarely get their due. Sure, critics might dismiss them as lowbrow, but their cultural impact is undeniable. They thrive because they resonate. They connect. They tell us something raw and unvarnished about who we really are.

Take professional wrestling. Is there anything more quintessentially American? It vibrates at the very frequency of our cultural pulse. Wrestling operates on a principle borrowed from theater, politics, and religion: kayfabe. Everyone—performers and fans alike—agrees to suspend disbelief. We all pretend the spectacle is real because, in a way, it is real. Wrestling isn’t just scripted entertainment; it’s an avatar of our national identity. A live-action soap opera where good and evil are drawn in bold strokes, battling it out for our amusement and belief.

But recently, it feels like the kayfabe is breaking. The illusion we’ve collectively agreed to has started to crack. Without a shared dream to inhabit, reality begins to creep in—and it’s messier, less forgiving. The heroes aren’t as pure, and the stories aren’t as clean. The myths we rely on to feel secure, superior, and “better than” begin to unravel.

The question isn’t just about wrestling or media. It’s about us. Are we better off living in the lie or facing the reality? Do we continue polishing our myths until they no longer reflect us, or do we embrace the chaos, the mess, the schlock, and find truth in what we’ve dismissed as unworthy?